


Ephemeral

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anthropomorphism - Freeform, Brother-Sister Relationships, Caretaking, Cyborgs, Death, Gen, Humanity, Phase Four (Gorillaz), Phase Three (Gorillaz)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: Trapped in an underwater cell on Plastic Beach, 2-D has very little company other than Murdoc (usually drunk, often violent), who sometimes sends his bodyguard in his place. Cyborg (a cyborg) doesn't offer much by way of conversation, but she can think and she can learn and 2-D needs someone to talk to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: This fic includes general descriptions of abuse, neglect, and treatment of injuries as well as explicit (although not especially graphic) descriptions of violence in later chapters. Such chapters will be marked accordingly in the author's notes.

2-D didn’t know what was worse: the distinct sound of water moving against the surface of the island well or the pinging of metal under stress.

He shivered as an eerie moan cut through the silence, seeping in through the very walls.

Whale song. Whale song was the worst.

He curled up in a ball on his bed, drawing the blankets tightly around himself with a flap of cloth hanging over his face to block out some of the light. It was hard to sleep with the light on, but harder still to sleep in the dark. At least the light gave him the comforting sight of his keyboards, dog-eared books and magazines, and other creature comforts. In the dark, there were only the sounds and the fear of what they could mean.

Any day now, the walls might cave in on his prison. Any day now, that bloody whale might eat him.

He ignored the rumbling of his stomach and the thought that, any day now, he might just starve to death.

That was ridiculous, really. It would never get _that_ bad. Which was kind of unfortunate, because he thought he would rather starve to death than be eaten by that bloody whale.

But he had eaten yesterday, and not badly, so he was unlikely to starve to death for missing a day here and there. Maybe two. It was hard to tell time this far deep under the ocean. A generator allowed him to run a television and Blu-Ray and keep himself amused, but no signal came through to give him an accurate reading on the day and the hour.

Still, he ate often enough, even if Murdoc was forgetful. He’d be more likely to die of thirst, but he was set for that as well. A curtained off toilet area also contained a sink and, while the toilet was a complex affair he would not trust, the water from the sink was good. It was hooked up to the island’s internal system, so he never suffered from thirst.

He suffered from many things, but never thirst.

A clanking outside the door alerted him to someone on the stairs and he sat up a little to see who it was. He both hoped and dreaded that it was Murdoc. Hoped because it might mean food, something besides water to drink, and perhaps a new prescription – he was nearly out despite careful rationing – but it might also mean a recording session or just some general abuse, if Murdoc was drunk enough.

In the end, 2-D hoped more than dreaded. No matter what the scenario, a visit from Murdoc would mean conversation, and he was so very desperate for conversation.

He was fated to be disappointed, he supposed. His visitor was not Murdoc, but his bodyguard, the one he had built from mechanical parts and fabricated flesh.

2-D was not entirely sure how Murdoc had gone about it. Murdoc was clever, but 2-D doubted he had advanced knowledge of both genetics and robotics. Still, what Murdoc lacked in personal knowledge, he made up for in connections. Whether he had worked on it himself or had others build it for him, it obeyed only him.

It also looked like Noodle.

That was the worst part.

It looked like Noodle, but a Noodle that was cold and unfeeling. It appeared to have all of Noodle’s guitar skills, but without the subtleties that only a living, breathing, feeling human could bring to them. It _almost_ moved like Noodle, but a Noodle that walked stiffly, never dancing to the music in her head, never throwing herself down beside him in a fit of laughter, never tossing up or squishing together in limited spaces, never hugging…

Never speaking.

As far as 2-D was aware, the cyborg – and it was properly a cyborg, having flesh that felt warm to the touch, supported by some sort of circulation system – had not been designed to speak. It made soft sounds sometimes – grunts and huffs and other noises caused by air flowing from its system, exiting through its mouth – but never words. It understood language, he knew, because Murdoc gave it voice commands, although the number of words and phrases it could recognize was beyond him.

He did know of one, however.

“What do you want?” 2-D said, sullenly.

The cyborg lowered its gun – it always had a gun, he noticed – and removed a rucksack that had been slung over its shoulder. It dropped the bag in front of him, secured the gun once again in both hands, and waited.

2-D cautiously reached out to take the bag, one eye warily tracking his visitor. It contained provisions of a sort: a few rolls in a bag, a salami, a small brick of cheese, two bottles of milk, one bottle of orange juice, six apples, and, incredibly, a large slab of chocolate. It looked like the bagged lunch of a student whose guardian had never made a sandwich before and had no practical knowledge of what or how much a human being could eat.

Which was exactly what it was, he realized. Murdoc must have given the thing a command to feed him, not realizing that no food was prepared. As it was not designed to prepare food, it simply put all the components it could find in a bag and delivered it.

It was fortunate for him, 2-D supposed. The amount of food in the bag would last him a while, especially if he hid it when more food was delivered. He had only a small pocket knife for fiddling with his instruments, but it would be enough to cut the meat and cheese. The milk he would need to drink quickly, but the rest would keep, at least for a little while.

“Thank you,” he told the cyborg, strangely grateful for its lack of knowledge regarding human anatomy.

He supposed that was the signal it was waiting for as it turned on its heel and marched back toward the door.

Through the thin fabric of its shirt, 2-D could see a red light blinking faintly.

“Wait!” he said. And, “Stop!”

The cyborg paused, and then turned mechanically to face him, its eyes cold and unyielding.

“You got… uh… You got a blinking light,” he told it. “On your back. Is that bad?”

The cyborg did nothing for several moments, long enough to make 2-D wonder if he was being considered a threat, and then it reached over its shoulder with one hand, as though it could touch the light for itself.

“No. No, i’s too low,” he told it. “You won’t reach. D’you… D’you want me to check it?”

The cyborg only blinked at him and pulled back its hand. He wondered if he should clarify, when it stepped up to him and made an about-face, hanging on tightly to its gun.

“Oh, um… Okay,” 2-D said, uncertain. “I’m… I’m just going to lift your shirt a bit at the back, a’right? I dun mean nothin’ by it. I just wanna look at your back. Just step away if you’re uncomfortable an’ I’ll stop, a’right?”

He waited a moment for a sign and, receiving nothing, assumed it was safe to proceed. He carefully lifted the back of the cyborg’s shirt, pushing it all the way up to the cyborg’s shoulder blades. The red light blinked near its main power port and he wondered if it indicated that the cyborg’s mobile battery was low.

Something inside him leapt for joy at the thought – Yes, it said, let the bloody thing run dry with the door open! Maybe then I can escape! – but part of him felt badly for it. As inhuman as it was, it still looked like a teenaged girl, and if there was anything he had learned at home, it was that you took care of your children.

He had also learned to spot an infection and the puffy, red flesh around the port gave him cause for concern. The main components had been inserted under the skin, with the port breaking through, and then capped, almost like an enormous stud. The flesh had healed around it – as any piercing might heal – but it was important to keep the site clean and check for irritation due to friction.

It was obvious that no effort had been put into such maintenance. The flesh looked rubbed and raw and puffed with blood, or whatever fluid was used to keep the thing’s organic components healthy. There was no pus or caking, not yet, but if the lack of care continued, they would not be far behind.

2-D sighed and lowered the cyborg’s shirt.

“Sorry, luv,” he told it. “Looks like you’ve been neglected, too. I can’t power you up, but I’ve got some plugs that might fit your smaller ports. I dun think the generator can feed you enough, but it might stop you blinking.”

Once the shirt was smoothed down, the cyborg turned and regarded him without emotion. 2-D wondered if it could feel pain.

“You… You should also get your skin looked at, all around the port. It… It… It’s kind of red and such,” he stammered, flustered by the thing’s unnerving stare. “Mum’s a nurse, see, so she told me all about infections and it… it looks like you got a bit of one. Just a bit, now, but it might get worse, yeah? You ought to let Murdoc know. If you can, I mean. Or… Or…”

He trailed off, uncertain of how much he should offer. He felt that, if the cyborg thought he was trying to trick it, it might retaliate with one of its weapons.

On the other hand, although 2-D did not think the cyborg could feel emotion, it did know how to learn. Any order that was repeated often enough was automatically integrated into its programming. At least he thought it was. He had witnessed Murdoc’s surprise when the cyborg anticipated orders he had given on multiple occasions. Perhaps, if he was useful to it in the same way often enough, it would see him as indispensable and take care of him in turn.

Or at least not carry its guns around him so much.

“Or, you know, I could have a look at it, maybe,” 2-D offered. “First aid kit would be best, but… um… if you’ve got some bandages, or the like, an’ some alcohol… Not like Murdoc’s, but, uh… the other kind. Iso… isopropanol? Yeah. Maybe some small scissors. But only… only if you want to. I can do the generator right away though. If you want.”

The cyborg blinked at him once or twice, and then held its gun against its chest so that one hand could go questing along the base of its neck. Taking hold of its gun once more, it nodded at him and stepped aside.

Assuming he had the cyborg’s consent to plug it in, 2-D cautiously moved toward his equipment and dug through the tangle of wires and extra power packs to find a plug that would fit the supplementary ports in the cyborg’s upper back and at the base of its neck. In the end, only the plug from an old set of headphones would do, so he cut it and spliced it to a spare connecting wire, describing his actions in detail to the cyborg.

This was partly to dissuade it from thinking his work knife was a weapon, prompting it to shoot him, and partly because… Well… He was lonely. When there was little conversation to be had, any kind of conversation would do, and the thing had a face, even if it displayed no natural emotion.

He set it up to charge a little, seating the plug in one of the jacks at its shoulder blade, noticing the rawness of the flesh there, too. He wondered why Murdoc had not used a silicone casing or something similar if he wanted a flexible skin, but suspected it had something to do with wanting to recreate Noodle as perfectly as possible. He had failed, of course, and had converted the result into a minor war machine, but had forgotten or couldn’t be bothered to replace its covering.

The cyborg knelt on the floor as the generator ran, clutching its gun as a warning that 2-D shouldn’t try anything funny. It was a needless concern. 2-D knew there was no way he could leave his cell without the cyborg stopping him. After all, it was merely plugged in to a small generator by a thin wire, hardly enough to tether it, should he run and it decide to come after him.

They hadn’t anything better to do, so 2-D put on a movie for them to watch. Rather, he put on a movie and watched it while the cyborg stared blankly at the screen. He wondered briefly if it understood the plot and that the events depicted in the movie were fiction, but it did not get excited and try to shoot the television, so that was all right. By the end of the film, the red light had only just gone out and 2-D was wary of running the equipment too long in an enclosed space, so he apologized to the cyborg and unplugged it.

“I’s not the right kind of set-up is all,” he explained, “but that should do you at least a little while. I guess you go on for a bit, even when the light’s blinkin’, so I think you’ll be a’right until you can let Murdoc know you need a power up.”

The cyborg rose and adjusted the collar of its shirt to hide the ports again.

“I dun suppose you’d let me out?” 2-D ventured when it had finished, but it only looked at him for one long, disconcerting moment, turned on its heel, and left, locking the door behind it.

“I guess not,” 2-D sighed.

Oh well, he thought. At least he had food, now. Chocolate even, although he resisted the urge to tear into it. Chocolate, like apples, would keep far longer than the rest.

With that thought, he ate some of the salami and cheese, wedged onto one of the rolls. He drank one bottle of milk and filled the basin of the sink with cold water to keep the other fresh until he’d had a rest, words like “morning” and “tomorrow” being useless in the timelessness of his underwater prison.

2-D hid the rest of the food away where he hoped it would not be found, put the bag out for the cyborg to retrieve, and curled up to get some sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, 2-D sat picking at his toes, for lack of anything better to do, and wondered what was going on.

Murdoc hadn’t dragged him out to record for a while, which was fine, he supposed. He didn’t really want to be around the bastard, but he didn’t want to huddle all alone in the deep dark of the ocean either.

His stores were faring well. The cyborg had brought him some more food. Not as much as before, having possibly figured out the capacity of a human stomach, but enough. Fish, rice, and vegetables all heaped in a bowl – though not in any way that suggested they were meant to be served that way – and a sweet bun, which was blissful and allowed him to keep his chocolate a while longer.

It had also brought him tea. Not just in a cup, but a heap of teabags and an electric kettle, as though it did not know how to prepare it, but knew what was needed and that he had water. It was a lovely comfort and not one 2-D felt he would have again, so he rationed these as well and hoped they would last.

The clank of his door’s lock startled him, and he looked up to see the cyborg, unaccompanied again, gun as ever at the ready although, he thought, held in a more relaxed position than usual. It had dirt on its face and on its arms and legs and the rucksack hung across its chest.

“Hello,” he said.

It paused at that, head cocked to the side, and then approached him. It held the rucksack out to him until he took it, and then performed an about-face turn. The red light blinked faintly through its shirt.

“What’s Murdoc doin’ up there?” 2-D said, genuinely worried. Not so much for Murdoc, but for him should something happen to his captor. The cyborg evidently knew that he needed food, but how long would the food last if something happened to Murdoc? Did the cyborg know how to get more? And even if it did, would he be doomed to spend the rest of his life underwater, being circled by a huge whale, or would it let him leave the room and try to find a way back to land?

Whatever the answer, the cyborg didn’t have it. It merely stood there a moment, and then, as if to make sure he understood, removed one hand from its weapon to slide the back of its shirt up a little.

“You… You want me to top you up again? I… I guess I could, but the generator can’t keep you goin’ all the time. You ought to talk to Murdoc. Or, you know, whatever you do if you dun talk,” 2-D said, rifling through the bag. He pulled out a first aid kit, a half-empty bottle of isopropyl alcohol, some plastic-wrapped rolls of gauze bandage, and a small pair of scissors that, by the look of them, he would not want anywhere near an open wound.

“Oh,” he murmured, realization dawning, “You… uh… you want me to try to fix you up a bit. I can try. I can. But… Well, mum’s a nurse, but I’m not. I might not do it just right. I just want you to know that before I start. I’s that a’right with you?”

He waited a moment for the cyborg to analyze the request, fancying he could hear its brain tick over. It responded only by inching its shirt up a little higher, an invitation to him to do whatever needed to be done.

“Um… a’right,” 2-D said weakly, a bit worried about the operation. “But I need you to kneel down. And to do it without anything inna way, you’re gonna have to… uh… maybe put your gun aside and take your shirt off. I mean,” he added quickly when the cyborg’s arms flexed, tightening its grip, “you can put it far enough away that I can’t reach it, but I dunno… ah… I dunno how you’re made an’ you… you might want to hold your shirt in front of you, maybe. I dun want it to keep slippin’ down when I’m tryna work, but I dun wanna… you know. Invade your privacy, like.”

It was not entirely a matter of modesty. Although they had respected each other’s privacy, nudity happened when a bunch of people lived crammed together in a single building. None of them would have paraded around without a stitch on, but doors popped open, windows were forgotten, and mad dashes with nothing but a loose towel were made. It happened. They simply looked away and pretended it hadn’t. If the real Noodle had stripped off her shirt and presented her bare back to him for the sake of first aid, 2-D would not have thought twice about it.

But the cyborg was not Noodle and 2-D was acutely aware of the difference. He did not want an eyeful of the thing’s naked torso beyond what was needed to clean and repair it. He did not want to know how far Murdoc had gone, nor to discover which was worse: the perfectly sculpted body of a teenager on something inhuman or the smooth, featureless front of a machine on something that looked like Noodle.

Both possibilities made him feel ill.

The cyborg seemed to consider his suggestion a moment, and then knelt down, placing its gun carefully on the floor in front of it. It had trouble taking off its shirt until it remembered to remove its hat, and then managed to draw it over its head and let the cloth pile in its lap, unconcerned about its state of undress.

2-D flexed his fingers, willing them not to tremble as he forced himself to focus on the job at hand and examine the port sites more closely than he had the other day. He needed to remove the caps to better assess the situation and told the cyborg as much. When he did not receive a response, he assumed a tentative consent and prodded at the mechanism. It seemed the caps could be removed with the proper combination of pressures and a twisting motion, so he began with the largest, gritting his teeth and wincing as he unlocked it and pulled it loose.

The edging was both better and worse than 2-D could have imagined and he failed to completely suppress a groan of revulsion as he prodded at the torn and reddened flesh. It did not appear to be entirely organic, being surprisingly pale, featureless, hairless, and oozing a liquid pinker and more translucent than blood. Nevertheless, it abraded and swelled like infected flesh and needed to be cleaned, as did the caps. He doubted he had the means to fully sterilize everything, but he would do the best he could.

Fortunately, there was no sign of pus or rot, which meant he didn’t need to use the questionable scissors to cut away dead and useless matter. He rummaged through the first aid kit, which was better stocked than he had hoped, and found a handful of antiseptic swabs and wipes among the various dressings and compresses. Knowing they might never be replaced, he opted to reserve them for the trickiest jobs and make do with alcohol for the rest.

Donning a pair of disposable gloves from the kit and carefully pulling the skin back from the edge of the port, 2-D ran an antiseptic swab all around the edge of the flesh and the wall of the port itself, wondering if the solution stung and, if it did under normal circumstances, whether the cyborg could feel it. Once the edge was cleaned and air dried, he soaked a gauze pad in alcohol and began to clean the abrasions on the surface, describing the process to the cyborg as he went along.

“I’m gonna do the same with the smaller ports, a’right?” he told it. “Only, I’m gonna stick to the alcohol, and then put some ointment on it. There are a buncha little packets’a that, an’ I think one’ll do ‘em all. I gotta leave the caps off for a bit though, a’right? I gotta clean ‘em with alcohol too, but they need to dry and the skin parts need to get some fresh air before I put ‘em back on. Dun wanna get wet alcohol and such trapped in there or it’ll just rub on the skin part. That’ll be bad, I think.”

As usual, the cyborg said nothing, so 2-D simply went about his business as carefully and delicately as possible. In some ways, the job made him feel calmer. Although he was uncertain about his proficiency, it was something definite that needed to be done. It made him feel useful, even wanted. The cyborg had come to him, after all, and even if it had done so out of logic, the gesture had meaning. He was valuable to it now, at least a little, and that might hold some sway. He doubted very much that it would allow him to do anything as drastic as escape – he wasn’t even certain where he would go – but he might wrangle some better food out of it or a more regular prescription.

In fact, he might ask about the latter once his task was complete. Although he did his best to ration them, Murdoc only left him a few pills at a time and, with his infrequent visits, 2-D was nearly out. He was permitted cigarettes and marijuana – the air filtration system was quite good – and these he mixed together to make the latter go further, but it wasn’t the same. It could take the edge off his pain, but never wholly quiet it. Regardless, he saved the bulk of the pills for migraines, whose frequency had only increased since his abduction.

“There now,” 2-D said, smearing the last of the ointment around the final port. “I’s not perfect, but it might help, maybe. Just have’ta let it breathe a bit now. Let it all dry. I think I can plug you in while you wait, but I’ll have to run the cable over your shoulder from the front so it dun lie against the antiseptic stuff. You really gotta let Murdoc know about this. I dunno what he’s doin’ up there, but if you’re protectin’ us, he can’t let you wind down. Hang on, I’ll grab the wires. I promise not to touch your gun.”

2-D had risen, found the cable, and turned back before he realized he had not told the cyborg to cover itself. He was shocked to discover he was not shocked at all by the fact that the cyborg was little more than a mannequin of soft tissue and the revelation did not even slow his return or his careful seating of the plug. Although the wire did not drag along the skin at all, he lightly set a pad of gauze over his work – just in case – and then asked the cyborg if she would like to watch another film while they waited. She seemed to have no preference, and so he pleased himself.

This time, however, he watched with as little emotion as his companion. He had thought knowing that something looking so much like Noodle was completely inhuman would be terrifying, but he found it heart-rending instead. He was certain the cyborg did not – could not – feel the same, but he thought it sad that something born of the desperate desire to recreate a human being would always fall short, always dwell in that uncanny valley between person and android with a shape that was nothing but a mould and flesh that was not quite flesh. Dirty, cut and bruised, she was the replica of a child tossed aside for not being good enough.

“A’s right,” 2-D said, “you’re all bunged up like you’ve been fighting inna dirt. Should have a bit of a wash while you wait. Not like a bath or nothing. Not plugged in like that. But I got a bit of soap. Wait here.”

He rose again and fetched a bowl – one he had washed and hidden away back when food delivery was regular. He filled it with water as hot as the taps would allow and scrounged up a clean flannel. Well, a relatively clean flannel. One he had only used to wash his face.

He carried these and a bar of soap back to the cyborg – who sat dispassionately watching the movie – wet the cloth, and asked her forgiveness.

“Sorry, luv,” he told her. “I’m gonna wash your face, a’right? I’s just water and maybe a bit of soap. Just to clean you up some. Dun be startled.”

Although the cyborg turned her head to look at him, she did not appear concerned with his preparations, so 2-D went ahead and washed her face, adding a bit of soap to the cloth once the dirt had been loosened. He worked gently, carefully avoiding her eyes, knowing the soap would probably not sting her, but uncertain of the delicacy of her optics. He didn’t want to ruin them.

Once her face was clean, he moved on to her arms, and then helped her to adjust her position, so she could sit with her legs sticking out ahead of her. When she was no longer kneeling, 2-D washed down her legs, and then disinfected a host of small scrapes and cuts on her knees.

“I dunno if your skin heals or not,” he told her, putting a square of adhesive bandage over each one, “but these should keep the dirt out anyway.”

He sat back on his knees to admire his handiwork.

“All fresh and clean,” he told her, grinning, and then the cyborg did the most horrifying thing he had ever seen her do.

She smiled at him.

He knew it must be a programmed response, the kind of acknowledgement Murdoc would want to see of his orders, but the expression looked like nothing more than malicious glee. It was almost cruel in its intensity – the smile too broad, the brow too low – and it was only a persistent lack of real emotion that saved 2-D from sheer terror.

Even so, his distress must have been obvious because the cyborg reverted to her neutral, resting face and 2-D could all but hear the ticking over of her internal mechanisms as she tried to determine what was wrong.

“I’s not you,” he told her. “Not really. I’s just the wrong kinda smile. I’s the kinda smile you make when you’re gonna do something bad and you’re happy to do something bad. You know?”

The cyborg only stared at him. He supposed she didn’t know.

“You can smile softer when you’re smiling because of something nice,” he pressed on. “Not so wide, like. You dun have’ta smile all the way. An’ you can keep your eyes open wider.”

She tried again, looking disconcertingly surprised.

2-D laughed.

“Better,” he told her, “but I din’t explain it well. By wider, I dun mean open your eyelids wide. Just… keep your eyebrows up some. Not all pushed down and mean-like.”

He smiled fondly, and then caught himself and froze.

“Like this,” he said, pointing at his face.

The cyborg attempted to mimic him and he tentatively reached out to adjust her expression a little here and there until it was passable. Still lacking in emotion, but passable, and no longer the malicious leer with which she had begun.

“There you go,” he said. “That’s your ‘things are nice and I’m happy they’re nice’ smile. Oh, but your hair’s all a mess. We should fix that up.”

He retrieved a folding comb, snapped it open with a practised flick of the wrist, and began tidying up the fly-away bits of the cyborg’s hair. He didn’t know if it was real hair, something synthetic, or a strange cross between the two, but it felt, tangled, and snarled like the real thing and he took a certain gentle pleasure in carefully working through the knots, humming softly to himself, occasionally breaking out into quiet snippets of song.

By the time 2-D finished fixing the cyborg’s hair, her red light had stopped blinking, a second movie had started playing, and the generator had started making that alarming hum he didn’t like. There might not be anything to it, but there also might be, and the sound was irritating.

He unplugged the cyborg, checked all the port sites, and replaced the caps, feeling sorry for the poor thing and the raw redness she had to endure. She might not feel it, he thought, but she also might. It was impossible for him to tell.

“Those should be checked regular-like, and maybe given some air when you can,” he told her, helping her get her shirt back on and adjusting her hat for her.

“There,” he said. “Now you’re all clean and pretty again. Or as much as I can get you, yeah? Would be better if we could put the proper plug in your back. A bit unfair of Murdoc to put it where you can’t reach it to care for yourself. He could have put it in your belly. Or even at your chest, you know?” He described a circle above his sternum. “You could be like Iron Man. Or like that bit in Sailor Moon when she changes. You might like Sailor Moon better, ‘cause she’s from Japan like Noodle, although Iron Man’s got more guns, so…”

He shrugged and grinned sheepishly when he realized he was rattling on to a machine that likely neither knew nor cared about pop culture.

The cyborg stared at him blankly a moment before giving him her soft smile, and then picked up her gun and rose to her feet.

“Um… ah…” 2-D stammered before she could leave. “If… If you know Murdoc won’t be coming down anytime soon and you find… you find…” He dug around by his bed for his pill bottle and held it out to show her, rattling the three remaining pills inside. “You find some medicine that looks like this. Could you bring me some? I really need ‘em for pain an’ I’m almost out an’… an’… Well, it would be nice if you could. If you see some, I mean.”

The cyborg stared at the pills dispassionately for several seconds, and then looked at 2-D with the same expression for several more. Finally, she nodded sharply and turned on her heel, leaving the room and locking the door behind her.

“I guess that went okay,” 2-D sighed to himself, stashing the pills and digging up his chocolate. He broke off a little bit – just a very little bit – and sucked on it to make himself feel better before hiding the rest and huddling on his bed, unsuccessfully ignoring the whale song that rose and fell beyond the walls of his room.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time the cyborg visited 2-D, it was the dead of night.

At least 2-D _thought_ it was the dead of night. The ocean outside his porthole looked ever so much darker than it usually did. So dark, in fact, that he dared not keep the curtain open for very long lest that bloody whale notice the light inside his room and come closer to suss him out.

“What d’you want, luv?” he asked her. “I dun think you sleep, so I guess i’s not a bad dream. Unless you dream of electric sheep. That’s a joke,” he added when she did not react, “but I guess we never watched that film. I like zombies better myself.”

The cyborg said nothing, merely regarded him with her head cocked, and then stepped aside to show him the empty stairwell.

“You make it look like you want me to go,” 2-D said, “but I dun trust you. I’s not you, really, but you do what Murdoc says and I dun trust Murdoc at all. If I leave, you might shoot me as tryna escape. I wouldn’t like that.”

The cyborg glanced at the gun in her hands, and then back up at him, exhibiting as much distress as an emotionless cyborg possibly could. She made a great show of removing the magazine, and then turned to expose her back, where the red light blinked through the fabric of her shirt, before turning back to him and tilting her head toward the doorway.

“Oh,” 2-D said, his heart sinking.

She wanted him to plug her in, that much was obvious. The generator was no longer enough. She was desperate and willing to bend protocol to have him help her. He thought she might be programmed to carry a gun with her at all times, especially when he was out of his room, but it seemed that nowhere in her programming did it say the gun needed to be loaded. She was desperate enough for his help to find a loophole that might make him happy.

2-D should have been gleeful. It should have been the perfect opportunity. Instead, his mind latched onto only one question:

Where the Hell was Murdoc?

If the cyborg was so desperate for assistance that she had come to him, where was her master and creator? The thought that she might have been abandoned saddened him.

“Okay, I’ll help,” 2-D told her. What else could he possibly say?

The upper levels of the island took on sinister forms at night. 2-D had only seen them during the day, and then briefly, as he was being led to the studio to record and occasionally outside to get some air. The latter excursions came few and far between, but he always sort of enjoyed them, in spite of his overall distaste of the island, because Murdoc only offered the outing when he was feeling particularly melancholy and amenable. Murdoc let 2-D outside because he was one of Murdoc’s few – perhaps only – steadfast companions over the years, able to understand his complaints and share in his memories. And if 2-D’s steadfastness was quickly eroding, well… there wasn’t really any place he could _go_ , now, was there?

In the dark, every uncertain shadow was a threat, and yet 2-D preferred it to his underwater cell. Upstairs, in the dark, there was no pinging metal. Upstairs, in the dark, there was no sound of moving water.

Upstairs, in the dark, there was no bloody whale.

Cyborg led him to a door set into the central pillar of the island tower and unlocked it. Wires dangled inside the small, cupboard-like room and a console glowed a soft blue in the darkness.

“I’s not a very lovely place to sleep, is it?” 2-D said, nose wrinkled in distaste. He supposed that Cyborg didn’t really spend much time in that room, but Murdoc could have tried to make it prettier. Put in a coat of paint, at least. Maybe some pictures or something to look at. Cyborg might not feel the way humans did, but she did have logic circuits and could learn and she might have found pictures interesting.

He sorted out the cords as best he could and Cyborg eased in, presenting her back to him, head down. Since he did not need to fiddle with open wounds, her shirt could be pushed to the neckline and held in place by the plugs. 2-D began with the largest, locking it in position, and then hooked up the smaller cables. A final, even thinner wire, still hung loose and he found the tiny port at the base of Cyborg’s neck that housed it. It looked like a data transfer cable, rather than a power cable, and he wasn’t sure that it was necessary, but he plugged it in all the same.

“How long then?” 2-D asked, noting that Cyborg was down to 3% power.

Either she did not know or had no way to answer because she did not move, merely stood, head bowed, as the monitor indicated that she was recharging.

“A’right,” 2-D said. “I’ll take a bit of a walk then. I promise I won’t leave you here.”

He wondered what would happen if he _were_ to leave her plugged in and simply make for shore. Would she idle like an appliance or was it possible to overload her?

A small part of him still felt glee at that prospect, but most of him felt sadness and disgust. She had no way to care for herself, and if Murdoc—

Murdoc was still about somewhere. If he were to run across 2-D out of his cell, things could go very badly. Of course, if 2-D went looking for Murdoc, more or less announcing that he was out of his cell, things could go even worse.

2-D internally debated the merits of finding Murdoc versus letting Murdoc find him and decided that a conscious search of the island tower was safer than a surprise encounter. He cautiously swept through each room he found on his way to the broadcast room where he found Murdoc, passed out drunk over his equipment, snoring like a buzzsaw.

Well, at least he was alive, 2-D thought, unsure of how he actually felt about this revelation.

Certain, now, that Murdoc would not be waking any time soon, 2-D took the liberty of lightly searching the rest of the rooms. He found the kitchen, which called his stomach to attention, and carefully rummaged through the drawers and cupboards for food that he could eat or take with him in case of future neglect or, perhaps, escape.

To his chagrin, very little was prepared and ready to eat. There were cans and an opener if he had the opportunity to run, but nothing that would satisfy his immediate hunger beyond bread rolls, cheese, cured meats, and some fruit, mainly apples. That explained Cyborg’s selection. She had simply taken what was available.

With no other options, 2-D made a couple of rough sandwiches, being sure to clean up after himself. A dirty knife could be spotted more easily a bit of missing cheese, after all. He then perused the cupboards as he ate. Of the dry goods, there were quick oats, parboiled rice, and dried lentils that he might successfully take and hide in his underwater room. They could be cooked by sitting in boiling water, now possible thanks to the kettle Cyborg had brought him. The cans contained a more interesting variety of fruits, vegetables, and even meats, but he was reluctant to take the only can opener. Its absence would be too easily discovered. If he found a second one, he might consider it, but at present it was safer to leave the cans where they were.

Finishing the second sandwich, 2-D stepped out onto one of the balconies, happy to get some fresh air, even if it did stink of garbage. Beyond the lights of the tower and lighthouse, the sea stretched on forever, inky-black and full of fearsome things.

2-D shuddered. As much as he wanted to leave, the prospect of setting out on the darkened ocean terrified him. Even if he had a boat – and he wasn’t certain that was an option – it would be impossible for him to navigate. He knew there was a submarine docked somewhere, but he didn’t know where or how to drive it if he found it. Cyborg could probably drive, but as much as he had helped her, she was still Murdoc’s creation and he didn’t think she would override her programming to help him. Not for something as drastic as escape.

It seemed he would have to put up with the island a little bit longer.

He sighed, returned to the kitchen and bundled some of the oats, rice, and lentils into his shirt for easy carrying. Then he returned to Cyborg to find her almost fully charged.

“Nearly there, luv,” he told her, reading the console.

He had only glanced at the screen to gauge Cyborg’s battery level when he had first plugged her in, but now 2-D noticed some smaller text below her vital statistics. It was a little hard for him to read, but it appeared to be options regarding Cyborg’s settings. The bulk of them required a password for administrative use, but it looked as though he might have access to other areas of Cyborg’s programming, such as her internal clock, optic precision, and scheduling.

2-D’s fingers hovered above the console as he wondered whether a little tinkering might not get him a more regular supply of food… or of drugs. He wondered, and his body screamed at him to try, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it and his fingers trembled over the controls, caught between desire and horror.

The logical part of him railed against his hesitation, but he had never really been a creature of logic. All he could see was the girl beside him, bound up by wires. A girl, who was not a girl, and yet was. She could think, after a fashion. She could learn. She was not Noodle, no, regardless of her appearance, but she was herself. She was not here by her own will, but by forced obedience to Murdoc. 2-D could not bring himself to bend her to his will as well.

You took care of your children. Even the bloody stupid ones, like him.

2-D withdrew his hand, knowing he could never live with himself if he messed around in Cyborg’s head, if he forced her to be obedient. He would rather she learn for herself. Learn that she didn’t have to be obedient. Learn that people could often do things for her, that she could do things for them in turn, and this exchange was right and good and proper. That there were places other than the island and that she could leave to visit these places, if she wished. That she could bring a friend with her.

That she could _have_ friends.

He turned away from the console to remove temptation, ignoring the protests from his brain. He did not think of it again until it bleeped, signalling the end of Cyborg’s recharging cycle.

“There you are, luv,” 2-D said, carefully unhooking her from the charging station and straightening her shirt. “All ready to go out. Don’t suppose you’ve an extra submarine around…”

Cyborg looked up at him and offered him her soft smile. Then she raised the gun and pointed it at him.

“Hey, now!” 2-D protested. He knew it wasn’t loaded, but the barrel pointing at him was no less disconcerting, and a gun could be a club if one swung it hard enough. “I’s just a joke! You dun need to be rude about it! I knew you weren’t gonna let me go anyway. Not with Murdoc all in your head.”

Cyborg gestured with the gun and 2-D acquiesced, picking up his shirt full of emergency food and beginning his descent toward his prison. Cyborg followed after him, her heavy tread ringing on the stairs, and 2-D wondered if the gun still pointed at his back. Probably, he figured, if she was programmed to escort him in this fashion. Once in his room, he sat obediently on the bed, his bundle of food beside him, not wanting to hide it until he was certain he was alone.

Cyborg stood over him, all clicks and whirrs, as if in contemplation, and then reached into her pocket and pulled out a little plastic bag full of pills that 2-D recognized on sight.

It was not a full prescription by any means, but it was considerably more than he currently had in reserve and he nearly cried with relief as he held his hands out in supplication. He did not dare take them from her for fear of her programming misunderstanding the gesture.

She dropped the bag in his hands and stood back as he thanked her, offering her soft smile even as she reloaded her gun. Then she turned on her heel and left the room, locking the door behind her.

2-D thought he might have learned something from the interaction, but he wasn’t sure what it might be. He would need to think on it a bit longer when he wasn’t overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. He would also need to consider the possibilities of escape, now. The venture hinged on whether or not he could convince Cyborg to disobey Murdoc. The proof might be in her armoury. She had several guns hidden inside her body, but already she had proven willing to unload the one she carried to make him comfortable without violating her programming. If he could convince her to go unarmed in his presence…

2-D sighed. These were all problems for another night, he decided. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do right now, out in the middle of the ocean, deep beneath the waves. Still, he felt somewhat lighthearted for the first time in… Weeks? Months? He didn’t know how long he had been in his underwater cell, but he was certain he had not been at all lighthearted since his arrival.

Smiling fondly at his stash of food and medication, he hid everything as best he could and curled up in his blankets to get some sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:** This chapter contains explicit (although not particularly graphic) violence and suicidal ideation.

“What the bleeding Hell did you do to my bodyguard?”

2-D barely had time to wake up and register the question before he was bodily dragged out of bed.

He murmured sleepily, trying to get his bearings, only to be slammed up against the wall.

“The cyborg!” a voice demanded. A slurring, sputtering, angry voice that he slowly recognized as Murdoc’s. “What have you done to it?”

“Nuh–Nothing!” 2-D stammered, grunting as he was yanked forward and slammed back against the wall. “Please. Please, dun hurt—“

“Shut it, dullard!” Murdoc roared and 2-D shut it. He felt too tired and out of sorts to fight. Not that he was able to fight when he was well. Something about Murdoc enervated him to the point of helplessness, even in the best of situations, and this, far beneath the ocean, was not the best of situations.

“You’ve been fucking around with the cyborg,” Murdoc accused and 2-D felt himself flush with horror at the thought until he realized that Murdoc was referring to his tinkering. “I thought for a while that it had figured out how to bandage itself, useless as that might be, because it had sticking plasters on its knees, but it’s been tampered with in places it can’t reach and its battery’s full. I sure as fuck didn’t plug it in and if I didn’t plug it in, there’s only one other person on this island that could have. That’s you, Nancy.”

“You… You dun take care of her!” 2-D snapped at him, surprised by his own courage. He supposed he could grow a bit of spine for little ones, even if they were near adulthood and technically not human. “You just let her run down and get her skin all ripped up! She din’t like it! Maybe i’s like dyin’ for her. I dunno. But she din’t like it. She asked me to help—“

“Asked you? _Asked_ you? She can’t even speak, you manky bastard!”

“She… She came down here an’… an’ showed me with her gun. Gestured-like,” 2-D insisted. “She made me go up an’ showed me the room an’ I plugged her in. She was only at three percent, Murdoc. She could’a died!”

Murdoc scowled. “It can’t die, it’s a bloody robot!”

Awake now, 2-D could see Cyborg standing just beyond Murdoc, her gun held securely in both hands like always. Murdoc, too, had a gun, but he kept it in the holster at his side and used his arm instead, leaning up against 2-D’s chest, pressing him into the wall.

“Please,” 2-D begged him. “Please. I’s hard to breathe.”

“At three percent, are you?” Murdoc sneered. “Did it ever occur to you that I wanted her to run down so I could upgrade her outer casing without risking a discharge that could fry her circuits? Did you think of that? Did you?”

2-D wheezed as Murdoc put ever more pressure against his chest.

“No, of course not. You’re a bloody twat,” Murdoc said, easing up a little. “Why would you consider anyone else?”

“Out... Outer casing?” 2-D gasped. “Like… Like her skin?”

“It’s not skin, you stupid git,” Murdoc snarled. “Even if it’s got a few organic components, it’s not skin. And the organic components are the problem. They’re the ones tearing up. When the upgrades are finished, it will be better, more durable.”

“You can’t just operate and rip off someone’s skin without askin’!” 2-D said, affronted. “You din’t even tell her! I know she din’t know or she wouldn’ta come down to get me to fix her up. You can’t just—“

A gasp escaped 2-D as Murdoc yanked him forward and slammed him against the wall again, this time with the full force of his weight behind his arm. 2-D whimpered as pain flared in his chest and he fancied he heard the sound of ribs cracking. Another blow might break them, he thought with mounting terror, but he remained incensed on Cyborg’s behalf, and it drowned his fears in fire.

“It! Is! A! Robot!’ Murdoc roared in his face. “It can’t be scared! It doesn’t have feelings! It doesn’t have operations, it gets upgrades! It doesn’t need to give consent!”

“But she—“ 2-D wheezed.

“Stop calling it ‘she’! It’s not a girl! It’s not even a person!”

“You made her look like one!” 2-D shot back, eyes tear-bright with fury as he gathered the strength to push himself forward and allow himself some breathing space. “If she’s not a girl, then why’d you make her look like one? An’ like Noodle! If all you wanted was a robot with her skills, you din’t have to make it _look_ like her! You made her a girl and you made her to be Noodle and she thinks and she learns and maybe she only feels like computers can feel, but she dun deserve to be treated like trash just ‘cause she can’t be what you want. She din’t ask to be made. She din’t ask to be someone she can’t ever be. You ought to know what it feels like to never be enough!”

Time stopped and hung silently on the air only to snap back into motion with a backhand sharp enough to bang 2-D’s head against the wall and split his lip, filling his mouth with blood. The tip of Murdoc’s handgun forced it’s way up against his cheekbone.

2-D’s instinct was to beg, but an overwhelming feeling of relief drowned it out. Relief at the thought of being free of his underwater prison, of forced recording sessions, of his pained and aching body—

And then Cyborg’s hand clamped down on Murdoc’s wrist and forcefully pulled the gun away. Murdoc strained against her, but she was cool and implacable. In he end, he allowed her insubordination and stepped away from 2-D, who sagged against the wall, weakened by his natural will to live at odds with his disappointment in having to survive.

“You’re lucky,” Murdoc intoned coldly. “It’s programmed to protect my interests, and I still need your voice. The upgrades are scheduled for tomorrow. If there’s a power discharge and it fries, just know it’ll be your fault.”

He left, then, without another word. Cyborg lingered only a moment before turning on her heel and following him out the door. Murdoc slammed it shut behind her, locking it.

2-D thumbed at his split lip and tried not to think about the burning spot on his cheek that would no doubt be purple within a day. He tried to mitigate his breathing, but it hurt and he inhaled in small gasps, trembling now as the adrenaline drained from his system. He stripped off his shirt and gently prodded his chest, wincing as he touched the the place he felt his ribs had cracked. They held firm in spite of the pain, and there wasn’t much else he could do about it, so 2-D merely stretched out on his bed and focused on breathing.

Gasps became hitches and hitches became sobs, deep and raw and painful. He cried hard and noisily in a way he hadn’t done since childhood, emotion born of fright and despair. He thought again of the chance he had missed with the gun and mourned it, remembering that he had painkillers now, a lot of them, but feeling too drained to get back up and find them. He reminded himself they would help with the pain in his chest, but it was not enough to convince him, his body like lead and his head filled with wet cement.

Needing sleep, but plagued by discomfort, 2-D cautiously gathered pillows and clothing into a pile onto which he could recline. He hoped the elevation would prevent him from choking on the blood from his lip or the snot that wedged in his sinuses. As final as suffocation might be, it seemed an unpleasant way to go when a prescription was readily available. He just needed a moment to rest and regain his strength.

Just a moment.

2-D drifted in and out of sleep for an indefinite period of time, stumbling awkwardly and painfully to his feet only to use the bathroom and drink a little water, two endeavours that did not seem worth the trouble once they were accomplished, but that his body refused to let him ignore. Each time he reminded himself that oblivion awaited in a tiny plastic bag, but each time it seemed like one more step than he could handle and he rolled back into bed to sleep some more.

Eventually, pain overcame his exhaustion and he sought the pills out, but, as he considered swallowing the lot of them, it occurred to him that pills were often ineffective and, should he survive in spite of his efforts, there would be nothing left for everyday use. It also occurred to him that, perhaps, he didn’t really _want_ to die. Not here. Not yet. He wanted the chance to maybe see sunlight again, to be in a place free of whales…

To find out what happened to Cyborg.

He took two pills to help with the pain and tried to sleep some more. It was a little harder now that his body was mostly rested, but he managed all the same.

The next time he woke, it was to the sound of his cell door opening. Cyborg stepped in, her gun as ever at the ready.

“Oh,” 2-D breathed, barely able to frame his thoughts. “You’re a’right. I… I’m happy you’re a’right. Does Murdoc know you’re here?”

Cyborg said nothing, of course, but did nothing else to let slip the truth. Instead, she merely loosened her hold on the gun to pull a package out of her rucksack – wrapped ham and cheese sandwiches – and hold them out to him.

Taking them, 2-D realized he was hungry. Rested as he was, the residual drugs still numbing his pain, his body was aware of its other needs and wants. He doubted that anyone had visited him while he was sleeping and wondered vaguely whether Cyborg had learned to make sandwiches herself or whether they were Murdoc’s odd attempt at an apology. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was starving and the thought of them made his mouth water.

“Thank you,” he told Cyborg, tearing into the first sandwich. He hoped she wouldn’t think him rude for stuffing his face in front of her. She said nothing, only held her gun securely as he ate.

“Is the new… Is the new skin, um… the new casing comfortable?” 2-D said, even as he chewed and swallowed the last bite, putting the crumpled packaging aside for later disposal. “Can… Can I see it?

He held his hand out to her. Cyborg looked at it dispassionately for several moments, and then she took one hand from her gun and let him take her forearm.

2-D ran his fingers over it and checked the articulation of her hand. The casing – her skin – had a silky texture to it. Not precisely flesh-like, but not unpleasant to the touch. Not too strange.

Not too inhuman.

“Cooler than your first one,” 2-D said. “Cooler temp’rature, I mean. Probably warmer closer to the power source. Murdoc musta gone for some kinda silicone base after all. It has that resistance, but still… not really _not_ like skin. You… You look really nice,” he told her, letting her arm go. “Not so pale. I guess the new… the new skin has a better colour.”

Cyborg took her arm back and gripped her firearm, saying nothing. She simply watched him, her head cocked slightly to one side as though seeking understanding.

2-D noted a bit of matting poking out from under her beret.

“He still hasn’t done your hair though,” he said. “Din’t he show you how? He ought to have. You’ve got enough, whatsit… enough range of motion to do it. Unless he dun like you puttin’ your gun down. You want me to fix it for you?”

Cyborg seemed to consider this, and then turned around to kneel in front of him. 2-D smiled to himself at the dichotomy of holding tight to a firearm while presenting her most vulnerable parts – her neck and the power ports along her back – to him.

“Wait. I got a hand mirror,” he said. And he did. A largish one that he kept mounted on a hook on the wall. He fetched it and passed it to her. “Now you can see what I do and maybe do it yourself if you need to.”

He put her hat aside and started working the snarls out of her hair. He had it pegged as mainly artificial now – Cyborg would never be able to wash it like a human did – and, as it would never grow back out, he worked carefully to avoid breakage. He chatted with her as he worked, describing everything he was doing. The conversation was largely one-sided, but he felt she engaged with him by the way her eyes moved in the mirror’s reflected image.

“If we weren’t in the ocean, I’d bring you out to do things other girls do,” 2-D said. “I could take you to the fair and show you the dodgems. Lots of people there. You’d probably meet some your age and make some friends. You’d be a brilliant friend. Not everyone has a friend who’s a cyborg. Well, maybe not so much a cyborg now,” he allowed, “maybe more an android, but I’ll still call you Cyborg, if i’s a’right. If you know another name you like better, find a way to tell me and I’ll use that. Maybe we can read some things sometime an’ you can stop me if you hear a name you like.”

He paused then, seeing the reflection of Cyborg’s eyes flick upward toward the ceiling.

“He’s waitin’ on you, is he?” 2-D said sourly. Of course Murdoc’s very presence would disturb the closest thing he had to a companionable visit. “I’m about done. Let me get this bit at the back and I’ll let you go.”

He rushed the last bit of snarl, knowing it wouldn’t hurt her anyway, and replaced her beret.

“You can keep the comb, if you want,” he told her, folding it up as she stood. “I got another somewhere. I just like this one ‘cause it fits in your pocket.”

He held the comb out to her and she stared at it blankly a moment before handing him back his mirror, taking the comb, and shoving it in her pocket. Then she fixed her grip on her gun once more, offered her soft smile, turned on her heel, and left.

It was nice to know that Cyborg was all right, 2-D thought, although seeing her gutted him. She was not Noodle, could never be Noodle, but she reminded him so much of Noodle that she was a constant reminder of something that could never be. How much worse was it for Murdoc, who had made her, who looked at her every day, and who, in his regret, seemed determined to remove every ounce of her humanity?

Still, as hard as it might be on Murdoc, he had no right to do the things he did. Not to him, not to the other artists rumoured to be trapped somewhere on the island, and not to Cyborg. It had taken 2-D a while to really think of her as a person, resentful as he was of her intended purpose, but once he had come to terms with the fact that her existence was beyond her control, it had been easy. She wasn’t Noodle, not by any means, but the world was full of girls who weren’t Noodle and who had had no more say in their births than Cyborg did. All any of them could do was try to find their place in the world.

Which would be impressive, 2-D thought, because he was rather certain he had not yet found his.

Unless it was to take Cyborg to the fair and show her the dodgems after all. That would be nice. If she met other people her own age, she might learn something other than military arts and obeying Murdoc’s every command. And guitar, although knowing guitar might be an advantage in the friend-making department.

That was what he would do, 2-D decided. If he needed to live, then it would be to get out of this underwater Hell hole and try to introduce Cyborg to things that were fun, people that were new, and ideas that, if not entirely her own, could be weighed by her logic circuits until she found the ones that were.

His dream never came to fruition. Cyborg never returned to his cell on her own, only as Murdoc’s bodyguard. 2-D tried to convince himself that Murdoc was afraid of the influence he might have over her, but thought it more likely that Murdoc simply wanted to ruin his possible enjoyment of a conversation with someone that didn’t interrupt or hit him every time he opened his mouth. He was made to record some more. He was made to leave and show up for promotional purposes, and then for tours, his continued presence ensured by Cyborg’s gun at his back. For reasons he did not understand, people were often after them – or at least after Murdoc – and they spent much of their time away from the island dodging bullets and avoiding some scary bloke in a cape and gas mask. On one return trip, Cyborg took a bullet to her head, causing a short circuit. Shortly thereafter, the island was attacked.

2-D saw none of the commotion, locked away as he was, but the sounds reverberated down into his cell and pieces of debris sank past his porthole as he tried to look up and see what was going on. They appeared to be chunks of airplane, but he didn’t know what type. All he knew was that the bloody whale was no longer circling his prison.

It was no longer circling his prison because it was coming straight at him.

Stupid, bloody whale.


	5. Chapter 5

2-D knocked cautiously on the light wooden frame of the door, smiling sheepishly when Noodle looked up at him and grinned.

“You don’t have to be so formal,” she said.

“Din’t want to startle you,” he told her.

“I could hear you there. It’s fine.”

2-D supposed she could. He still felt it was only polite to knock on _something_.

“Russ says the food’ll be here in about forty,” he said, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“What did they go with after the fight?”

“Thai.”

“Thank fuck. I was afraid I’d have to pop Murdoc one if I didn’t get my spring rolls.”

“He knows that,” 2-D said, picking at his fingers. “He does it just to be contrary.”

Noodle looked up at him again, smiling fondly this time.

“I know, Toochi. It was… kind of an exaggerated statement.”

“Oh.”

He had trouble, sometimes, understanding the meaning of things. It caught him a lot of rolled eyes from Russel and cutting words from Murdoc, but Noodle never seemed to mind, repeating herself in a different way if he misunderstood, or asking him what information he needed. Occasionally she simply corrected him and he tried to remember that she did so only because she wanted to clear up confusion when there was nothing else to say or expand upon, but it was hard not to feel shamed all the same. Noodle was so smart and so… so well put together that she made him feel shabby in comparison.

“Why don’t you come in and wait with me?” she said, returning to the task of trimming a tiny tree that grew out of a little mossy hill in a glazed clay pan. “You’re allowed to, you know.”

He supposed he did. If Noodle well and truly did not want company, she would have slid the door shut. Even so, 2-D always felt a little off in Noodle’s room. She could be as sloppy as the rest of them, leaving articles of clothing and dirty dishes around the common areas, but, in her own room, everything was in perfect order and carefully balanced. He could feel the influence of the house seeping in, trying to reclaim the physical changes she had forced upon it, but it had yet to succeed and Noodle’s room – suite of rooms, really – remained an oasis of calm and tranquility filled with carefully selected antique furniture and tasteful art.

He felt dirty and unkempt as he slipped off his shoes and stepped inside. He had not felt the need to decorate his own room overmuch and tended to be haphazard about furniture. It hardly seemed worth it when he had so few things to fill a room and had long ago lost the desire to find more.

“You seem very anxious today,” Noodle said as he settled in cross-legged beside her, watching her work.

“Do I? I dun mean to,” he apologized automatically.

“I don’t think it’s something people intend to feel, usually,” Noodle said gently. “Your feelings aren’t bothersome. Well, I’m sure _feeling_ anxious is bothersome to _you_ , but your being anxious around me isn’t a bother. You can talk to me if there’s something on your mind.”

“I’s nothing,” he said, and then, when she gave him that little quirk of the eyebrow that suggested she knew Murdoc was somehow involved, added, “I mean, there’s no reason I’m anxious. I just am. Nothing’s happened.”

“Maybe you’re worried about the food.”

“I dun think so. I like Thai,” 2-D said before realizing that Noodle was joking. “I could murder a curry,” he amended. “The food should worry about me.”

Noodle laughed at that, which was nice.

“If you’re often anxious for no reason, I could teach you how to care for bonsai trees,” Noodle said. “It’s very calming. And sometimes it’s just nice to take care of something.”

“I’d be scared it would die,” 2-D told her.

“It’s a tree,” she assured him. “Trees that die go into the soil and become the next tree. Some are much sturdier than others, so, if you’re worried, you can always start with one of those. I think you’d like a flowering sort the best. Flowers are like an extra burst of happiness. I have a couple of types. I’ll show you.”

2-D opened his mouth to protest, to tell her it was all right and she needn’t trouble herself, but Noodle had already hopped up and run to the far side of the room where another door stood open to let in air and sunshine from the back garden. He knew Noodle often put some of her trees on a bench outside in good weather, and this is what she had run to collect. She returned with two, one in each hand.

“This one is a serissa,” she said, holding it out to him. He took it unthinkingly, eyes fixed on the small tree in her other hand. “Serissa’s pretty tough and will grow indoors or out, so it’s a really good one to start with if you’re interested. It blooms in summer and into autumn, but will often bloom all year if kept indoors.”

She noticed, then, the direction and dismay of his gaze and her voice took on a sharper edge.

“The sakura is a special case,” she said. “It only blooms in the spring, but it’s the nature of sakura blossoms to be temporary.”

“Did Murdoc give it to you?” 2-D said, afraid to ask, but needing to know.

Noodle looked at the inert head of silicone and metal alloy, turned upside down in her palm, a small tree growing from the hole where, in a human being, the nervous system would connect to the spine. Dark, synthetic hair hung in snarls, exposing the ragged edges of a bullet hole, neatly plugged with clay to hold in the dirt.

“I asked him for it,” Noodle said, her words colder than 2-D had ever heard them. “He agreed as long as I never let him see it again.” She paused before adding, “He never goes out into the garden.”

Murdoc did care about her, 2-D thought, putting the serissa aside. If he hadn’t cared at least a little, it would make no difference to him what was done to her.

2-D held out his hands.

“Can I see her?” he said.

Noodle’s lip curled a little in anger – just a little – but she held the bonsai out to him. After all, it had always been her intention to show him, 2-D told himself. She was simply startled by his reaction. He supposed she had thought he would be pleased to know his former jailer could no longer hurt him.

In truth, he was not entirely surprised by Cyborg’s fate, even if he had hoped the tears would stay locked away. He had known, on some level, that Cyborg might outlive her usefulness, that she might wind down and be irreparable, that she might be recycled in some way. It had even seemed right and good in a sense. He had simply thought it would be much further down the road. He was not prepared for a lifecycle shorter than the average cell phone. He was not prepared for the glassy stare of sightless eyes, their optics long disconnected. He was not prepared for the terrible salt sting that made his vision blur.

He had expected it all to happen eventually. He had not expected it to be so soon or to hurt so much.

“It wasn’t me,” Noodle said almost petulantly, a tone 2-D had never heard before.

“No,” he agreed. “She wan’t. Never could be. But there’s lotsa girls that aren’t you. They’re still girls.”

“It wasn’t a girl.” Noodle’s voice was harder now.

“Maybe not,” 2-D said sadly, running his fingers through the synthetic hair, “but she could think and she could learn. She might have learned to be a girl. She might have learned to be someone else.”

“It was a made thing!” Noodle snapped, stamping her foot, her anger strange and unfocused, not directed at 2-D, although he felt the brunt of it. “It was made with guns and programmed to obey! It was nothing but a war machine!”

She blanched then, eyes wide, the colour draining from her face even as 2-D felt his jaw clench and the quality of his tears shift from sorrow to rage.

_So were you,_ he thought, but did not say.

He did not say it, but the slight tremble of Noodle’s lip suggested she knew he had thought it, had heard it deep in her own mind, perhaps in his tone of voice. Heard it and expected him to say it because, while 2-D seldom spoke in anger, when he did, he spoke terrible, hateful truths.

“She din’t choose to be,” he said instead, willing his anger far away. “She din’t ask to be made a war machine. She din’t ask to be made like someone she can’t ever be. She din’t ask to be made at all. She might’ve learned, but…” He thumbed the sealed hole in Cyborg’s head. “She was badly hurt. She might not have.”

2-D ran his thumbs over Cyborg’s brow, touched them to the corners of her mouth, forever frozen in an expression of neutral anticipation. Then he held the head up to Noodle.

“I understand,” he said as she took the head from his hands. He didn’t, not really, but he could imagine. He doubted he would have handled coming back from the “dead” to find his mates had replaced him with circuits and wires any better than Noodle had. He might even have felt worse about it, and he hadn’t the excuse of seeing all the worst fears of his early childhood made real by his caretakers. “I’m not angry with you. I dun blame you. I’s not your fault Murdoc’s a prick an’ dun think of people’s feelings, yours or mine or hers. No one can be you an’ I’m happy you’re back, no matter what, but I still feel sad. I’m allowed to.”

“The rest… the other parts… they’re in a crate in the cellar,” Noodle said, her voice neither angry, nor bitter, but somewhat flat and toneless. “Packed carefully. In the cellar.”

2-D smiled sadly as he stood and stepped in toward Noodle.

“That was very respectful. Thank you,” he said, kissing her high on the forehead. “I think your trees are very pretty, but I dun think I’ll grow any.”

“No, I suppose not,” Noodle said.

“I think I’ll have a wash and wait inna kitchen,” 2-D told her. “I’ll give a shout when the food’s here if Russel dun call you first. An’ Noodle?”

“Hmm?” she hummed, biting her lip.

“I’d like to see your sakura when it blooms.”

2-D waited until Noodle smiled at him and nodded, and then he turned and left the room.


End file.
